


The Places Where You Bend

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Anger, Language, M/M, McLennon, implied sexual relationship, mild physical conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 15:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11740230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: "Whatever the opposite of 'toppermost of the poppermost' might be, we're in it up to our asses."It's 1967, all hell is breaking loose, and Paul doesn't know if he can do this anymore.





	The Places Where You Bend

The Places Where You Bend

***

October, 1967

***

No power outage, no technician strike, nothing short of an earthquake, could bring the recording studios of EMI to quite as complete a standstill as one John Lennon in full strop.

John stood beneath his microphone, glasses askew, tie long-gone, shirt unbuttoned to the navel. His right hand held a crumpled lyric sheet; his left was holding the neck of his guitar far too loosely for safety. "Take the damn pop filter off," he yelled in the direction of the control room. "I want the consonants to explode!"

George Martin's voice came over the intercom, the weary schoolmaster explaining a rule to a truculent little boy. "We've been over this, John. The input capacity simply can't contain it, and you'll get clipping--"

"Which is what I want in the first place," interjected John.

"You'll get clipping, and distortion, which I know you also want, but you have to trust me to find a different way that won't wreck the control board."

"I don't need a different fucking way, I need for you to make THIS way work!" From his vantage point at the piano, Paul could see John's entire body quivering, tightly-wound. "Or else we need a different studio!"

"Johnny, stop, please," Paul murmured. He wanted to be anywhere on the planet except where he was, especially when John was in Full Bastard Mode.

"You don't know what the hell I want, Paul, not with your moon-June-spoon-loon-Hello-Goodbye granny shit, so stay out of it!"

"John," Ringo said quietly. He was halfway hidden by the screen around his drum kit, making his eyes, large and round with distress, even more piercing than usual.

"Oh, what is it YOU want?" John demanded, turning on Ringo. "Your opinion, from the very back of the room, is exactly what we don't need right now."

"John!" Louder, more forceful, this time from George, who looked up from his guitar with his brow angrily furrowed. "Stop it."

"Don't," John began, completely balling up the lyric sheet as he pointed a thin finger at George, "don't you dare start in on me. This is my song and I know how it's supposed to sound, and it's THEIR job to make it sound like that."

"So contradicting the only people in the room who know how this equipment works is your great idea?" George tossed his head and blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "You're going to scream at them and insult them until you get your way?"

"Fuck you!" shouted John as he waved the Epiphone toward George. It grazed the leg of a nearby stool and flew out of his hand, landing on the floor with a sickening crack.

George was up in a flash, rushing to the guitar as if it were a child in peril. "Oh, fuck," George mumbled, his lean fingers running over the body of the instrument. "Fuck, John."

John stood still. His face, which had been an angry red, drained to a sickly greenish-white. Ringo stood up. "I think he's gonna--" He didn't have time to finish his warning before John ran to the trash can and started retching over it. 

"Down," Paul said softly, coming up behind John and pressing on his shoulder so that he ended up kneeling in front of the trash can. Paul crouched behind him with one hand holding John's glasses in place and the other rubbing slow circles on his back as John gagged and spat up a clear, sickly-sour-smelling fluid.

George choked a little as the stench wafted over to him but continued examining John's guitar. Ringo covered his face with his jacket and leaned against the wall behind his drum kit.

"Is he going to be all right?" George Martin's disembodied voice held more concern and affection than anyone would have expected, given John's outburst.

"Yeah," Paul answered, not taking his eyes off of John. 

"What brought all this on?" asked Ringo, who was pointedly looking away from where John was vomiting.

"He had a really bad trip last night and hasn't put anything in himself besides coffee and ciggies." Paul sighed, remembering how John had nearly bitten his head off for suggesting that a sandwich might not be the worst idea in the world.

Finished at last, John rocked back on his heels and wiped his mouth with his sleeve while Paul held his body upright. "I'm in the fucking room, you know."

"It'd have been hard to miss," George said drily, "between the tantrum and trying to use your guitar as a cricket bat. You've bent the tailpiece good and proper, and the neck needs to be reset. I don't see anything seriously broken on the body itself. This time," he added. "Try it again, and you'll need a whole new guitar."

John blinked short-sightedly and sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Paul prodded him in the ribs and inclined his head toward the control room. "Sorry," John repeated. "I've had a shit day and now it's a shit night. We'd better knock off for now, all right?"

"Yes, I think that's best," George Martin assented. "Paul, will you lock up, and then see that John gets home in one piece?"

That had always been Brian's job, making sure someone was on John-sitting duty. But Brian was dead, the boys were adrift, and the day-to-day tasks had fallen on George Martin's shoulders.

Paul dragged John to his feet. "We'll just go to mine. It's closer." He peered into John's pale, sweaty face. "If you puke in my car, though, I'm tossing you out into the road. Preferably in front of a bus."

"Here, hold up a sec." Ringo loped over to them. He fished in his pocket for a moment before coming up with some wrapped pieces of candy. "Sherbet Lemons. Zak gets carsick and these are the only things that help," he said, offering the sweets to John.

"Ta, Ritchie," was all John said as he unwrapped a candy and popped it in his mouth, but Ringo seemed satisfied. He gave John a playful punch in the arm. 

"Go sleep it off, wouldya? You're impossible when you're coming off the stuff."

John's lips were set in a tight line. He nodded at George, who was packing John's guitar gently in its case. "I'll see to this," George said gruffly as he followed Ringo. As the door closed, they could hear him mutter, "Never thought I'd live to feel sorry for our Paul."

"Fuck," John groaned. "Let's get out of here."

"No." Paul folded his arms and stared John down. "Not until you tell me what the hell's going on with you. Snapping at the engineers? Slinging your guitar at George? Picking a fight with RINGO, of all people?" 

"Yeah. Like you said, last night was a rough trip." John covered his eyes with his hand. 

"Don't fucking hide from me, John!" Paul snapped, grabbing John's wrist and wrenching his arm downward. "If you want to put your two cents' in on my music the way you always have, that's fine, but you're not gonna call it names in front of George Martin and you're sure as FUCK not gonna do it in front of Ringo and George, is that clear?"

"Since when do you get to give ME orders?" spat John.

"Since no one else has the nerve to say two words to you! Since no one does anything but run around like chickens with their heads cut off since the day Brian--"

"Don't you bring Brian into this!" John stood toe-to-toe with Paul and twisted his arm free from Paul's grasp. Red finger-marks stood out against the light skin. "This has nothing to do with him!"

"It has everything to do with him!" Paul's voice was strident, even in the muted acoustics of the studio. "You were always his little golden boy and he was twisted around your little finger--"

"And you resented him for not falling for the McCharmly allure!"

"--from the moment he whisked you off to Spain!"

Paul heard himself screaming those last words, his heart hammering as he spat verbal venom out of frustration and grief and, yes, even jealousy. He knew John was aware of every single emotion coursing through him, so he wasn't surprised at all when John spoke again in a teasing sing-song.

"I tried whisking you off to Spain, but we didn't make it there." John leaned forward, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against Paul's. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "You've been jealous? All these years?"

"Piss off, Lennon," growled Paul, acutely aware that he was becoming aroused.

"Jesus, I can't believe you! Do you know why I went with him?"

"I can fucking GUESS!" Paul shoved John in the chest, backing him up to the piano. Touching John always sparked something deep and dangerous inside of him. "So you could get everything you wanted, the hell with the rest of us."

John stumbled slightly and half-sat on the keyboard. Paul ground against him, too hard to be pleasurable for either of them. "I was trying to make sure we stayed Brian's top priorities," John said quickly, his sour breath puffing against Paul's face. "He fancied me. He liked rough trade, Paul, you knew that about him from the get-go. And I'm as rough as they come." He looked away. "You always knew that, too. You had bruises for a week after...after the night Brian died."

Fresh anger coursed through Paul at the memory of that night. John's hands, heavy and insistent on his thighs, had left purple marks that hurt almost enough to dull the pain and shock of the awful news. 

Paul ground against John again, wanting to relieve the pressure in his groin, and if that meant jamming John's ass further into the sharp edge of the keyboard, so be it.

"That's right, Paul, you can take out your frustrations on me. You could treat me the way Brian liked to be treated, slap me around the way you think I deserve." John suggested. At Paul's horrified glance, he added, "You know damn well that I don't mind a bit of rough. Now and again. As long as the marks don't show."

Paul really, really did not want to know about that.

"And right now," continued John, "you're angry enough to do it."

"Maybe I am precisely that angry." Paul tried to sound convincing but his mind's eye was showing a Technicolor film of John splayed naked across the piano, begging to be fucked, and that ruined any chance of his voice conveying any toughness.

John pulled out another piece of candy from his pocket and tried to unwrap it. His fingers shook enough that he fumbled ineffectually with the paper. "Fuck. You open it." 

"Why the hell should I?" 

"Because I'm bloody well going to kiss you and my mouth smells like a sewer."

"You just think you're gonna kiss me," Paul panted, his hips moving rhythmically against John's. "I don't wanna kiss a bastard like you."

"Sure, you do, you're just too scared to admit it."

Paul lunged forward. Surprised, John dropped the candy and stepped on it with his heel when he overbalanced and began falling backward. His ass landed squarely on the keyboard and created a loud tone cluster. Paul's head snapped up, his eyes widening as his brain shook and cleared itself like an Etch-a-Sketch.

"You wanker, you're figuring out what notes my bum just played," John teased.

Paul flushed, caught in the act, and he started to laugh. His anger dissipated but there was a knife's edge of hysteria in his voice. He clutched John's shirt as the laughter became harsher, threatening to become sobs.

Straightening up, John let Paul lean into him. "Hey, it's all right, it's all right," he soothed. When Paul looked into John's eyes, he saw so much regret and embarrassment in them that he wondered if hearts really could shatter.

"I don't know how much longer," Paul began, then he had to stop and clear his throat. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this thing, trying to keep the band together, trying to keep YOU together. It's too damn hard." His knees didn't hold him up very well at this angle and he slid down to the piano bench, tugging John's sleeve until they were side by side.

"We've made a right dog's breakfast of our lives," John declared as he slipped his fingers between Paul's.

"That, we have."

"Whatever the opposite of 'toppermost of the poppermost' might be, we're in it up to our asses." 

Paul let out a little sniff of a laugh. "I've tried and tried to figure it all out, but I'm not even sure what the question is, anymore."

"I often wonder that, myself," admitted John. "I wonder how we could go from aspiring musicians in Liverpool to rich, pokers-up-the-butt assholes flinging guitars at each other. How in the name of bleedin' Jesus did we get to this point, Paul?"

Unable to speak, Paul just shrugged. John turned to him and took both his hands. "It wasn't an easy question, you know. I deserve an answer. We all do."

Paul looked at the floor, at his knees, anywhere but John's penetrating brown eyes. He could feel the center of his world, the John-and-Paul of it, collapsing in on itself. "I don't know how. All I know is that I'm scared, John, I'm fucking terrified!"

John lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and peeked over the gold rims until Paul met his gaze. "It's only me, Macca," he said with a rueful half-smile.

Paul took a steadying breath. "But which 'you' are you tonight?" John, who was shading his eyes with one hand, did not answer. "John, are you falling asleep?"

"Not hardly," John said, turning slightly toward Paul. His eyes were red and wet with unshed tears. "The lights in here are too fucking bright, is all."

Sighing, Paul put his hand over John's heart, concerned by its unsteady, quick thrumming. "Just how bad was that trip last night, anyway?"

"Bad enough. I still feel like shit tonight. And then to get into those stupid fights..." He shook his head. "Maybe I'm just hopelessly fucked up." He started to put his glasses back on properly, then gave up and let them stay halfway up his nose. "Maybe you should just punch my hard fucking head into the concrete."

With a heavy heart and trembling fingers, Paul reached for John's wrist, gently this time, and placed a soft kiss at the pulse. He rolled John's sleeve up above the elbow and traced the veins at the crook. First he used his fingers, then he leaned over and licked in the same spot.

"Paul." Paul shuddered at the sheer carnality of his name when John exhaled it with such fondness. "What're you doing?"

"I don't care about your hard head," Paul whispered. "I like these places better. The places where you bend, where your skin is soft." His breath caught painfully in his throat. "Where you can still let me in."

John nodded, then kissed Paul on the forehead and let his lips linger there as he whispered, "Take me home, Paulie. We can let each other in."

They helped each other up and prepared to leave the studio, John taking the offensive trash can out into the hallway while Paul fiddled with the lock on the door. He thought about taking his guitar and bass home but decided against it. He wanted to give John his full attention tonight, give him all his love and devotion.

Because nowadays, Paul told himself as he turned out the lights, you never knew if there'd be another chance.

***  
END  
***


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